I’m not one for celebrating days (apart from 22 December); treat every day like the best day of your life.
So I haven’t been out on New Year’s Eve at midnight for 30 years, since I saw in the year of The Beloved and Fool’s Gold and World In Motion with six IPAs (“Ippers”) at the Free Press. Modern music is much better, folks.
Just about now it’ll be filling up in my local, which doesn’t bother with tickets and Adele tributes.
But when I popped in for the “15 minutes” the Chung Hwa said that my crispy beef and spicy squid would take (always double it) there was the usual half dozen in the Public; four faces you recognise and a couple you don’t.
The note on the bottom row isn’t from the Real Ale Tairsters, note.
I said hello to Andrew the Landlord. We compared notes on Bass, VAR (booo !) and Christmas Eve v Black Eye Friday.
He sells more real ale than keg, you know.
I drank the Nog (3.5) in ten minutes, so I had time for the Lacons (3.5+) before Order number 38 was ready.
You don’t sip beer. Even on New Year’s Eve.
And yes, Mrs RM has drunk all the bottles of beer my sis gave me for Christmas.